


spit you out

by cemeterydriive



Category: Heathers (1988), Heathers: The Musical - Murphy & O'Keefe
Genre: Sex without Protection, adult jdonica, quick fic, rly brief non descriptive face sitting, uhhh choking?, uhhhh vaginal sex, yeah he chokes her
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-17 21:21:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29232213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cemeterydriive/pseuds/cemeterydriive
Summary: Every time, he crawls back into bed and she welcomes him with loving arms and desperate lips, chasing a high that she doesn’t deserve. And when he grips her ass and pulls her close, mutters that he loves her, she manages to forget about the mothers that’ll never see their children again; forgets the flashes of red she sees behind closed eyelids, the cold feeling of a deteriorating body under her fingertips.Tonight isn’t any different.
Relationships: Jason "J. D." Dean/Veronica Sawyer
Comments: 9
Kudos: 35





	spit you out

**Author's Note:**

  * For [deeplyshallow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/deeplyshallow/gifts).



> i wrote this after watching the extra features on the heathers disk. literally just inspired by the fact i think christian slater is pretty.
> 
> this was uploaded onto my chxrryb0mb blog, which is my other account. I’m not abandoning that, just posting side things on here and seeing how they fare.
> 
> This is set sometime in the 90s, so they’re adults. As always, kudos + comments are appreciated.

He’s not loving or gentle, and their relationship has never been anything but a crooked line, so she isn’t too surprised about their bickering. She just kind of _forgot._

She supposes it’s easy when he has so many good moments, but she isn’t entirely naive — she knows that with all good comes bad, and he’s cashing in on the bad part as much as he can. For every laugh she shares with him, every fumble in their bed, there comes the nights where he’s nothing but bloody teeth and insanity.

Every time, he crawls back into bed and she welcomes him with loving arms and desperate lips, chasing a high that she doesn’t deserve. And when he grips her ass and pulls her close, mutters that he loves her, she manages to forget about the mothers that’ll never see their children again; forgets the flashes of red she sees behind closed eyelids, the cold feeling of a deteriorating body under her fingertips. 

Tonight isn’t any different.

Her mouth shapes around his fingers, feeling the burn of a gag as they slip down her throat, knocking her uvula. Tears prick in her eyes, a stray teardrop falling down her cheeks, down to her chin to drop onto their conjoined bodies, disappearing amidst their motions.

He opens her up with an ungainly move of his hips, driving himself deeper inside. She feels the burn of an unprepared stretch; hears the commotion of skin against skin, watches him wither and moan and thinks _mine._ A thought that disperses when their bodies meet again and she jolts, a loud smack sounding between them. 

She can’t see the blood on him, but she can taste it, wonders who crossed him when she swipes her tongue along his teeth. The space they have between them is minuscule, though almost feeling necessary, like she might break if they get too close. 

He loves her, she knows he does. In whatever fucked up, mangled form he can manage, he loves her, but he fucks her like he doesn’t. It’s angry and uncoordinated, far from poetic but intended enough where it’s more than just a random hookup. His fingers clamp around the back of her neck, squeezing, and she sputters, losing the rhythm of their hips for a short second.

He squeezes her tightly, makes her gag as she feels the pressure spread through her body; feels it bleed to the front of her throat as he makes her watch his changing face, taking in his expressions like they’re her last breath. 

There are moments like these that remind her that he knows who he is, he knows he’s good, knows that she wants him. Knows that she’ll fight for him, as long as he feeds into her fantasy for a couple hours.

He releases her neck, but the relief is temporary. His fingers return to her face, force themselves past her lips and back down her throat so she can struggle to breathe, eyes clouding with tears. She thinks that, if this was the last thing she ever saw, that it would be something worth remembering.

She tastes sweat on him, sees it on his forehead, down his chest, and yearns to lick him clean. Nip his chest with gentle love bites, take his nipples between eager lips as he stumbles over their line of power. Sometimes, he truly is hers, more than she’ll ever be his.

“Mine,” He hisses, teeth clenched. He places fingers on her clit, trying to play with her to the tempo of their fucking, and she whines. Chokes on it, gurgles on her spit and his fingers and clutches his wrist, pushing his fingers further until the room feels a little too hazy.

She couldn’t agree more with him. _Mine, mine, mine,_ feels so childish, so selfish, but it feels so _right_ chanting it in her head, matching his hurried mumbles. _Mine, his, hers,_ whatever. It always ends the same. 

She watches his jaw set and his teeth grit further and his fingers pull from her mouth, settling over her throat. She intakes a deep breath, readies herself for what’s going to happen, and then holds his stare when his grip closes around her neck. His fingers are wet, slathered with her saliva.

“ _Whore_ ,” comes first, but it’s nothing more than another claim. He follows with, “My whore, my little whore,” and while everything inside her just _screams_ to disagree, she doesn’t.

Whatever lecture on misogyny and sexism she has is going to be a problem for future them, when she can properly tell him to watch his mouth. She can’t even piece a coherent thought together like this.

His grip on her throat tightens. She can feel it in her, the thrumming of her skin and the beating of her heart as he undulates against her, skin colliding noisily. She wants him to come first.

She clutches his wrist and speaks with her eyes, encouraging the maddening grip he has around her. At one point, the thrill of this was knowing that he could kill her; now, it’s because she knows he won’t. Because she knows she has a tight enough grip on him, through all his delusions and obsessions, that he knows he _needs_ her.

So, she plays it up. At first, gasps through his hold, but seals her lips shut so her heart beats in her throat, right under his fingertips. And she watches him watch her, enjoying the dilation of his pupils as his thrusts become a little more hurried.

She isn’t sure what she would say if she could speak. _Give it to me_ feels a little too porno, _give yourself to me_ is sensual in all the ways they’re not, and _I love you_ doesn’t belong in a situation like this. She harshly sucks in a breath.

“You couldn’t kill me,” She rasps. Maybe not the traditional _I love you,_ but a reminder of who they are. “You couldn’t kill me, and because of that you love me.”

His pupils nearly eclipse. His swing falters, and he jerks into her once, twice, and a third time with trembling thighs before he empties inside her.

She moves clumsily, pulling herself off of him and clambering forward. She shoves his chest roughly, pushes him against the ground and locks her thighs around his face. She knots her fingers in his hair.

Her clutch on him is nearly as tight as his had been, holding his head against her as his lips secure around her clit and he laps at her, tasting them. 

When she orgasms, she calls his name and tears the hair right from his scalp.

It’s when they settle, twisted around each other, artistically draped with a blanket, does she have her moment of clarity. The sharp drag of cigarettes and rebellion is what zaps her back into her reality. She looks at his face, remembers the taste of blood on his teeth and thinks _shit,_ because her ignorance — survival tactic or not — has never been known for being consistent.

He smiles, and there’s nothing but rows of tiny, yellowing teeth, and she wonders if she’s imagined it. 

“Mine,” He says. Speaks it, not a hiss, not a growl. Not a profanity, but the god awful truth, because sometimes the things they say during sex are a little closer to reality than she wishes them to be. 

He touches her neck again, lovingly this time, and for the thousandth time in their relationship, she forgets.


End file.
